Socrates: O Phaedrus—if i fail to know my Phaedrus, i have forgotten my own self.
// 228α
ὦ Φαῖδρε, εἰ ἐγὼ Φαῖδρον ἀγνοῶ, καὶ ἐμαυτοῦ ἐπιλέλησμαι
//
endives and mallows
this morning, handsome as a child, touches
with warming fingers the amethyst mallow.
delivers, gladly, each from darkening time:
the businessman, lucid as professor;
the tyrant, same as refugee, receives
his quickening caress, the goldenlight of youth.
but not each child. nor any child— the sun
has blinded all with his apparition.
a forest of light is teething in the seed,
dog star, a diamond cleverly effaced.
her baby will be different from the rest:
impeccable smile, a garden’s wondering, walking train—
daily untangling from the priest’s embrace;
to carry off, intact, her very name.
//
oyi //
cocks and doves
is the sun enough for me?
uppity child— little Henri,
a cockadee, chases dovelettes
from the weeds. palest grey
sweetmallow breasts, ruffled
romancing on the pagar. desire
trembles in the precarity of daylight—
wooers, laughing, are tumbled upside-down.
Rainbow tidbits for Henri,
though neither of them is a hen. verily,
unto the sun is born a luminous,
bewilderingly beloved.
//
🌗
splinterwha
the resource re-
considering
skipping stones
whistling
in crevasses
stellar, hollow (
reckon starving
metric Io
reaches out ( g -
lossy limb
bittermallow
idiot(es) wind
whips ( w h i n i n g
past mumbling
nettles offset
private alphabets
boolean ( b r e a s t
nipple, teething
shooter —
wounding ) strings,
splintervolta
tablet dissolves
like ambien
sound-guarded Kali
graphic stems
roots’ f r a c t a l
externality
inscribed iamb ( so
so many
times ) my ear
sheltered, Delphi-like
in serif lobe
omega ( brooding,
loaded ) blood suss-
staining ends
threaded, mute
( litters
leaf
ground ) grammar
thick bundles,
shorn bodies from
brushes, hair-
lines
t um b l e w ee d
to thrift
the thistle, this
still tick-ling
or if sewn spider-
silk knew, s o w i n g
( m i l k s o f t
the habit of
( public
beauty )
a mustard seed
//
Phaedrus: what could you mean, O best Socrates? when Lysias, who is the cleverest (deinos) of contemporary writers, composed it over a long time, and at his leisure; while i’m just—any old body—(idiotes)—
how could i remember this, in a way worthy of that ?
so i lack, abundantly; and yet, i’d want to— more than much gold becoming mine.
// 227δ-228α
wishy-washy //
while waiting
i seemed to hear a new leaf budding from
outside, across the garden. i, pristine
sat on our bed— the future strange, deranged—
an alien inventing self-erasures.
is it normal, in my crone, to feel this way?
i missed a contentwarning— fingering machines,
scissored by shades of glass. the news,
the look of starving innocents; the bud,
not yetgreen, also not yet visible.
hallucination of the woozyqueen
or turquoise bees, copper goldenbuzzing
around the vervain; a shipwreck from afar
in language of my nature, or astray
unfounded tear, some private pearl, ruptured—
//
🌘
breathtakes
put these to rest, then
i may never write like this again,
there for the transition
between one phase and another.
with my fist through the glass
and my hands selecting the shards
poring over mistakes, the juice
rolling downhill dissembling
the brakes
breathtakes
with the drawn down
twilight. let there be lapses—
return to the system
of mouth and ear
the first time, that nation
of land and rivers and conurbations
a lot of loose ends
a lot of loose thoughts
first the sketch
and then the questions
like a green-scaled salmon, upriver
to the delta of your jaw.
//
Waalaikumsalam, selamat tilem, peace 🌑
qoop (O the genius)
a slick tongue slides around his marble curve.
force never felt so powerless before,
swept off your glacial nerve, flooding coastal
cities; by pull, arousal virginal
to witness one sun-surrendering bud
of violet, untouched America. he hides
in plainest word who dresses in flowers,
lying in a meadow— the modest egg thief.
mineralocean turns the ten tropics
ragged, wed to the staggering moon— but if
no yolk, she’s alabaster. jade at noon,
obsidian midnight, gravity’s appetite
dilates, lapis un-stone— a vowelbirths
the polished shadow of ingenious nature.
//
🌒
poly-seasonal //
his very subtlety
i brought my heart to work today—
a careful accident. i wrote
a note for you, pretending not
to show you who i am: bearded
angel, or boy turned upside-down;
chain-yanker or lonely-for-fruit;
the groaning king, his blessèd wreath;
a golden mule, the kiss of death;
soft bosom of the empress, red
from solar radiation; or
caress of thigh, giver of bread;
this image— you, unlimited.
//
🌒
earthquake
it felt like grass, before it felt like stone.
the other side of flame, igneous black
or tattoos grappling for your diamond face.
so i grew roots in water, he in bone.
and what if i abstain from apples for
a year, a tear, a deathtime. would he still be
indifferent? or disappeared into
his silverriver hair, my cloudy mountain.
your wooly light tempted discovery,
pulsating veins of mercury, the ground
mantle unbound. it whispers— not a limb
of you is immune to this hungering human.
//
🌓
Phaedrus: indeed Socrates, and the hearing relates to you; for the account was — of our spending, somehow, i don’t know — erotic; for Lysias has written the temptation (peirein) of a beauty; but not by a lover (erastes), this is his very subtlety — he says one must gratify (charisteos/charizomai) one who is not a lover, rather than a lover (era-o)
// 227ξ
καὶ μήν, ὦ Σώκρατες, προσήκουσα γέ σοι ἡ ἀκοή: ὁ γάρ τοι λόγος ἦν, περὶ ὃν διετρίβομεν, οὐκ οἶδ᾽ ὅντινα τρόπον ἐρωτικός. γέγραφε γὰρ δὴ ὁ Λυσίας πειρώμενόν τινα τῶν καλῶν, οὐχ ὑπ᾽ ἐραστοῦ δέ, ἀλλ᾽ αὐτὸ δὴ τοῦτο καὶ κεκόμψευται: λέγει γὰρ ὡς χαριστέον μὴ ἐρῶντι μᾶλλον ἢ ἐρῶντι
//
How many a desert plain, wind-swept,
like the surface of a shield,
empty, impenetrable,
have I cut through on foot,
Joining the near end to the far,
then looking out from a summit,
crouching sometimes,
then standing,
While mountain goats, flint-yellow,
graze around me,
meandering like maidens
draped in flowing shawls.
They become still in the setting sun,
around me, as if I were a white-foot,
bound for the high mountain meadow,
tall-horned.
Excerpt from “The Arabian Ode in ‘L’” (Lamiyyat al-Arab), attrib. Al-Shanfarā (may Allah have mercy on him), translated by Michael A. Sells (may Allah have mercy on him) in his volume Desert Tracings.
These are the final lines of the poem and the ones most explicitly referenced by this, but of course, excerpts don’t do it justice; 64 stanzas writhing snake-like through spirits of the desert as purest distillation of outlaw’s heart. Earlier stanzas can be found here. It seems appropriate that only traces of this poem should appear online.
Al-Shanfarā is a terrible dust devil, burning himself alive. Legendary antihero, desolation and exile ensconced in the premonition of paradise. dizzying!
as if i were a whitefoot
nameless, the gentle landscape chose
pointlost, ungiven, brutishly
endbringer to deadset hunger,
rudeness riverrun to mercy.
grim gravelshatterer, sparking flint
to be action or scenery—
object of disbelief, the ground
to goat a hesitating hoof—
or clamp too-trustingshank, object
of appetite. salivaspills
from ruthless gum of animal,
rankcivil tooth of shackledmilk;
but snarlingword, infant of dust
absent a motherverse, is howl
heartletting keen of lucid sacrifice.
come drink from me, Al-Shanfarā—
she desertlimns greydreaded; trim
your distance, wolves. the veil of thirst
is inhuman as ocean, burns
your hornsgolden by bending sun.
//
(reply to Shanfara’s Lamiyyat al-Arab, trans. by Michael A. Sells in Desert Tracings.)
early morning selfie //
Socrates: O beloved (philos) Phaedrus, whereto and wherefrom?
Phaedrus: from Lysias, Socrates, son of Cephalus, and i am going (poreuein) for a walk (peripatos) outside the wall
for i spent a long time there, sitting since early morning
persuaded by your fellow and mine, Acumenus, i make (poieein) my walkabout along the paths; he says they remedy weariness better than the racetracks
Socrates: beautifully said, O fellow; but it seems Lysias was in town
Phaedrus: yes, at Epicrates', the house of Morychus near the Olympian temple
Socrates: so what was the spending? or obviously Lysias was feasting you with speeches?
Phaedrus: you will learn, if you have leisure (schole) to hear as you go
Socrates: what, don’t you think i make it, as Pindar says, “a matter higher even than business” (a-scholias) to hear about your and Lysias' spending?
Phaedrus: then lead
Socrates: and speak
// 227α-β